What are your plans?
by planet p
Summary: AU; Miss Parker is visiting her daughter, when she receives some disturbing news. Miss Parker/Jarod, Emily/Lyle
1. Chapter 1

**What are your plans?** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

* * *

We sit on her bed and read _Where's Wally?_ It's not so much an exercise in reading as it is in straining the eyes, I find; Dulciebelle doesn't seem to mind; it's the age, of course: there are whole decades between us.

Dulcie has recently turned four; she is my granddaughter. Jarod and I had only ever had the one child, Syriana, and Dulcie is her daughter. Jarod is gone now, but he lives on in our children, especially, I often find myself thinking, in Dulcie's eyes: they are the picture of his.

As Dulcie laughs, I remember the times that Jarod and I had joked that it must have been Syri who had chosen her own name because neither of us could remember doing so.

I miss Jarod.

Recently, Dulcie's father, Lamon, brought her home a new rabbit. _New_ because she'd already had _one_ rabbit: Dollfin. And now she has Wally, named for her favourite series of picture books.

At home, Yarn waits for my return. Yarn is my cat: Syri had bought him for me after Jarod died (it has been that long). I'd wanted to throw him back out on the street or donate him to an animal shelter or something, but I'd kept him, and then, _only_ because of the way Dulcie had taken to him and he'd taken to her: the pair were quite fond of one another.

I imagined that he'd be waiting for his evening feed. I'd get home, open the door, and there he'd be: staring at me with those cat eyes: What's new? What's for dinner? Come on, move a bit faster, I'm starving down here!

And I'd tell him, "I'm not your age, you know." But what am I saying: I'm sitting in my granddaughter's bedroom, pretending to 'play' _Where's Wally?_ with her; I'm not home yet.

Dinner had already been prepared by Syri, so I hadn't needed to worry about that, but before Dulcie's little feet had pittered into the kitchen and her little hand had slipped into mine, Syri's eyes had gone solid with seriousness and she'd lowered her voice: she'd had something to tell me. And then had come Dulcie's blissfully ignorant interruption.

So, as I sit here, _pretending_ to play Dulcie's game, I have two things to worry about: one more important than the other. (Yarn has his dry food and his water; he just likes to hassle me with his cravings for fish or other things I can no longer stand.)

I wonder what Syri could have wanted to talk to me about; Lamon comes in. It's time for Dulcie to go to bed; time for daddy to give Dulcie a hug; mommy's on the telephone; it's a very important call, she cannot be interrupted or asked away for bedtime hugs. She will come in later, after the call; Dulcie will probably be asleep, but she'll still feel mommy hug her in her sleep; she'll smile. Daddy will remember and tell her in the morning how big her smile was.

Dulcie's face falls despite Lamon's efforts: she's not convinced; possibly, she'll never be convinced.

I kiss Dulcie's hair, which causes her to wrinkle up her face – she wants _mommy_, not _me_ – and leave the room: now it's just daddy and her; I have to be with my daughter.

I have to talk to her, now.

She is on the phone, as Lamon had said.

She looks at me with Jarod's eyes: her eyes say, _Later_.

I do not nod but neither do I linger. I walk to the kitchen and set about making myself a coffee: I'm tired; I'm no longer as young as I once was. (None of us are.)

She comes into the kitchen some minutes later. It is work, she says. She doesn't want to talk about it. (I wonder if she talks about it with Lamon; I _hope_ that she does, but I can't help feeling a little upset, a little cheated!)

She says, one of her fingers tracing an invisible circle on the countertop beside her, "I'm going to be a mother again; I'm pregnant. Dulciebelle with have a sibling."

But she sounds tired.

She's 31; neither young nor old.

I wonder if she's upset; if she wants the baby, or if she hopes it might just go away, quietly, in her sleep. "Does Lamon know?" I ask; the only thing I can think to ask, the only thing I _can_ ask.

Syri's lips glow redder with exasperation, a little bit of it colouring her cheeks. "Does he _know_, mom!" she cries, careful to keep her voice low enough so that the conversation remains between just the two of us, and not little Dulcie so close down the hall. "He's an Empath!"

"Has he said anything?" I ask, feeling stupid for it. I want to ask, _What? What are you trying to tell me, daughter? Are you pleased? Displeased? What are your plans?_ Of course, I don't.

"_He_ says that Dulcie will be so _happy_!" she almost yells, and now she's almost crying.

I can't figure her out; maybe I don't _want_ to. I feel a stabbing pain in my chest, though it's only an emotional pain, not my heart or something else which might worry me. "She will be," I say; hating that it's _all_ I can say.

Her eyes flash; lightning and then tears; so many tears, an ocean of tears. They're going to spill over, and onto her shoes, onto the floor.

Then, I say, "Will you?" I'm so _pleased_ to have finally gotten at the heart of it; but I'm _scared_, so my voice comes out in a whisper. I feel silly; whispering to my daughter.

She cries, her tears spill onto her face. "I'm scared!" she whispers; suddenly warm and holding me tightly.

"There's nothing to be scared about," I say; it's so good to hold her, to feel how warm she is, how alive she is.

"She says I have to kill him," Syri whispers, her voice so quiet that it's almost not a whisper at all; it's almost nothing.

I go cold.


	2. Chapter 2

I don't know why I bother; no one answers the door. He's probably dead, I think, but, as per my eternal grace with the universe, that'd be hoping for too much, so it's probably that he's out. I pray to God or anyone that it's not that he's up to something illegal or murderous.

It's raining and I'm cold and I'm walking away from my brother's house without any answers; I can hear his neighbours yelling up their own storm – a woman and a man – and I try not to hear; I can't stop thinking about Syri's last words to me, and the way she'd _whispered_ them: brittle, fragile, afraid. I'd wished then, and still did, that I could have been more than a solid presence, something more than dumbstruck.

Navigating around a puddle, I notice Lyle's car. I should have noticed it before, but then again, maybe it wasn't there before. Still, I'm sure it was, it's parked right in front of mine: it's a new car, I suppose I just haven't gotten used to seeing it and going, _Bingo, yes, that's my brother's car!_ yet.

I dawdle, anticipating that this is going to be fun. I punish myself a little for allowing Syri to flee from me, from my arms, dissolved in tears; for not going after her, for not saying anything to Lamon. All of these things, I should have done; all of things, would have been better suited to the role of any typical mother in my position. None of these things, I did. I left; scared, I fled.

I try the car door but it doesn't open, so I knock loudly on the window.

I feel so stupid; I shouldn't be involving Lyle in this, we've never been friends and we're not about to start being; but I can't ask Ethan, and, though it's only a guess, Lyle is possibly the only other people I know to have the Inner Sense. He's my twin; the way this gig works it – the universe, whatever – isn't likely to have denied him the Voices; our mother had them, our half brother had them; I'm almost convinced: it's the best I've got, _damn it_!

I knock on the window again, this time, with more assistance.

"It's raining," he finally says, when the door opens and I'm treated to hearing something other than his neighbours' indecipherable argument.

I'm not biting on that one: Yes, it's raining!

He must have been sleeping, I think; the Platters is on over the stereo. I suppose he'd needed to escape Mr. and Mrs. Loud, Angry Neighbour. I'd done, too; I couldn't have slept with that racket, not even over the fine mist of rain that I'd hesitate, really, to call 'rain.'

I bite anyway; "No, I'm sure it's _not_; I'm sure that's just a faulty connection with your visual implants, the reception must be getting bad. Do you hear that ruckus?"

He frowns, at my comment or at the 'ruckus,' I can't tell, and reaches over to turn off the stereo. "You visit, now? This is different."

I spare him a dirty look. "I'm here about my daughter," I bristle, before he gets any clever ideas. I think I've been sick of his clever ideas concerning the two of us since he ever had any clever ideas to begin with. No, we're not going to start finishing each other's sentences; we're not those sort of twins!

Actually, in truth, I probably hate his guts, so it's best not to overanalyse it, I think.

"She's having another baby," I say. "If it wasn't for her say so, I'd still be in the dark about it. But, this time, there's something different about the pregnancy to last time."

"Enlighten me, then," Lyle replies.

I want to strangle him. I say quietly, "'She says I have to kill him.'"

He doesn't smile; instead, he says, "Excuse me?" Like he hadn't quite heard me and was asking for my reassurance of what he did hear.

"I've been thinking that it's probably a spirit in unrest," I say. "A troubled Voice."

"It's probably schizophrenia," he says.

I contain the urge to choke and snap back, "You're an asshole!"

"I don't hear Voices as you do, sis," he says merely. "Mental illness has, however, been substantiated by numerous medical health professionals to 'run' in the family. Cathy, myself, who can say in the case of our father…"

"I'm not a schizophrenic," I grit with some difficulty, "and neither is my-"

"And I'm not saying that you are; I'm saying that this family has a history, and that there's a possibility that this time, it isn't the Inner Sense."

I'm seething. "You're saying that my daughter's mad," I utter; I can barely get the words out.

"'Mentally ill,' Missy. That's how they're calling it these days. It's not called 'mad' anymore. That's more a derogatory term for it than anything nowadays. I don't think that people _ask_ to be mentally ill, exactly; it's just that sometimes they're not strong enough to be anything else… sometimes, all of the disappointments and all of the traumas in life just get together, and there you have it. You've got to be clear, and realistic, and when you're not, sometimes it does more than you know, sometimes it grows. And, sometimes, yes, it's also brought about my substance abuse, but I'm not seeing your daughter as having been… say, into marijuana."

I've barely been listening to him, but I shake my head violently. "No!"

"It's not so easy to define; there's always going to be argument. But I think it's much more serious, and much more prevalent, than people are aware. Perhaps than people want to be aware.

"You know how it starts, they're all just kids, but they've got all the wrong ideas, and their ideas are so grossly off _kilter_. It's like when the girls are saying to the boys, _I'm interested so you should be, too; come on, why aren't you?_ And, you know, maybe it makes them uncomfortable, or maybe they can talk themselves round to it, or maybe they're interested, too. But, one day, when they're both adults, they suddenly find themselves thinking, _Who is this person?_ You've got to allow yourself to see other people for who _they_ are, not for who you want them to be, or who you're willing to take them as, or who you think they are. Once it's started, sometimes, the confusion never ends. Sometimes, they get so disappointed in who they're not, in what they've _not_ accomplished. It isn't a warming thing, but it _happens_, sis. You have to live in reality; what else can you do?

"I'm not saying it's anyone's fault; I'm not saying it's just the girls, I'm not saying, _Hey, let's all just pretend its not really there and tiptoe around it._ There's already enough of that, and maybe it's lessening, but there's still an awful lot of it!

"I'm saying it's up to _her_; _you_ have to leave that choice with her! I count myself as knowing you fairly well now, and I know that you're not the sort of person who can do what some people see as needing to be done. You _love_ your daughter, you're not going to subject her to that; you couldn't do it, I know you couldn't, not even out of love; you know as well as I do that's she got to want help, that nobody and no drug, no therapy is going to be able to force it upon her to 'cope' or 'recover' or whatever else they'd like to call it. It _has_ to come _from_ her! All you can do is be there to support her; and it's hard, I know it is, but that's it, that's all someone like you can do: and I'm _not_ having a go at you, I'm telling you what I _know_!"

I've stopped shaking my head, but my voice has gone strange. When I talk, only a whisper comes out, "She's not mad!"

"I think you should let her be the judge of that, don't you?" my brother asks.

I hate him.

I push the car door open and step out into what is now heavy rain, and run toward my own car.

I don't want my daughter to be _sick_! I want it to be that it's just the Voices, that it's her 'gift'!

I feel tears start to slide from the corners of my eyes, but I don't care; anyone looking on would just mistake it as the rain, that's what I tell myself.

* * *

**I'm not trying to upset anyone, I just don't believe in antipsychotic drugs. If you do, then it's your choice; I'm not going to try to take that away from you. (And there are so many, many reasons for it that I don't think anyone could ever list them all, and I don't think we could ever comprehend them all, either. And, yes, I do believe that sometimes it's got a lot to do with things just compounding.)**

**We all have to try to tackle this together.**

**Thanks for reading.**


	3. Chapter 3

I'm not going to believe it; not until I hear it come out of my _daughter's_ mouth! I'm not even going to speculate as to the cause of its emergence, or when that even was! At least, that's what I try to tell myself.

_It's not Jarod!_ I want to scream. _It's not because he's gone!_ I know that my daughter must miss him, too; that she _does_ miss him, but I _won't_ let it be _that_! I won't let it be blamed on Jarod by prying, misunderstanding eyes.

I tell myself that Lyle just likes to talk; it's never been any different. I think back to when I was a girl; I'd never heard any of the boys complain that I was coming on too strongly. Suddenly, I feel as though my brother's words were a very personal attack against my character: he's trying to make _me_ feel bad for _his_ sick delusions!

"Fuck you!" I scream, even though he's not around to hear me do so. If he's any sort of twin, if he's any sort of Perceptive, he'll catch the drift!

I hope he dies. Just where does he get off!

I don't think I'm ever going to have my answer to that, however. He'll probably never change for as long as he's alive, and I still don't expect him _to_. I never did, not since the moment I found out my twin was _him_ and instead of Angelo. I never expected anything from him, and I've never gotten anything worthwhile, either!

But this, now, is too much!

If it's not bad enough that Jarod just barely gone cold in his grave, my fucking brother's trying to send _me_ there, too!

_After you, you stupid fuck!_ I think.

I don't notice that I'm speeding and I have to slow down before I'm caught or I hit someone or something. I pull up in front of my house and get right out of my car and run to the house.

If I stay in the car, I'll just want to go back there and _kill_ him! And that wouldn't be improving matters with my daughter.

I miss Syri; I miss who she used to be as a little kid. I miss Jarod; I wish we could have had just a little bit longer. But I know, too, that that's no good: that living in the past is sure to be one of my brother's 'warning signs' of potentially leading to mental illness.

I walk into the lounge room and press the answering machine even though there aren't any messages. I go into the kitchen to make myself a coffee.

I imagine Faith, or Angel, sitting somewhere in the kitchen, watching me as I go about my coffee making; but they're not, and I'm just make believing.

Yarn slinks in and decides to make himself comfortable on a patch on floor in front of the kitchen sink where the sunlight is coming in particularly strongly.

I don't pick him up to stroke him; I'm angry and I don't want a hug. Even if it's been Jarod, back from the grave, I'd have told him to 'piss off.'

I sip my coffee. My daughter is not, I decide, mentally ill. It's the Voices; that's all it can be. It's not mental illness, I just _can't_ believe that. I won't! It's grossly selfish of me, but I _won't_!

* * *

Margaret is visiting from Canada and she stops by to visit me at the local mall; we'd arranged that meeting place when she'd called last night.

I'm sipping a coffee again; Margaret has decided to have an iced tea.

As Margaret flips through a glossy-paged magazine, reading glasses pinching the bridge of her nose, Emily's falling asleep.

She wakes up suddenly and digs around in her shoulder bag suddenly, before handing something to me. (The bag's not hanging from her arm anymore, Margaret had removed it before it fell off and hit the floor; it's now hanging over the empty chair.) It's an envelope, presumably containing a letter, I suppose. She adds, along with it, "This is for your brother. You know the one; the one I hate."

It's not really venomous, and I think that it's a pity, but she's too sleepy to try any real venom.

Margaret looks up sharply and frowns.

Emily doesn't say anything. Her mother's probably talked to her about this a million times before; quit with the hate mail already, but she won't give up. She's resolute.

_Good on you_, I think.

Emily starts to nod off again and reaches for her shoulder bag, still half asleep. She grabs it and pulls it toward her, into her lap.

I say, "Syriana's pregnant again." I don't know _why_; I want to slap myself silly afterward!

Margaret's attention is suddenly fixed on me.

"I just heard about it a day or two ago myself," I add. _Shut up!_ "But I think we should just keep it between us that I told you; I'm not sure Syri was ready to share yet, but I thought you'd just _want_ to know! I know I would." I feel like an idiot and a traitor.

Despite my feelings, Margaret is smiling.

Emily is looking through her cell phone; I can hear it beeping softly as she scrolls through the different parts of its menu and functions. She looks up with a frowning face. "Do you have your brother's number?" she asks.

I pull a face before I can stop myself.

"I swear it's a _real_ question!" Emily pipes up in Margaret's direction before she can even start with the 'Emily, please!'

Margaret sighs and looks at me: it's up to me.

"I'm sorry, Em," I say, using Jarod's nickname for her, "I don't keep it on me."

Emily puts her phone away. With a sudden shriek, she looks around sharply, turning in her chair, and screams girlishly, "I hate you!"

I nearly leap out of my seat, but, when I see who it is she hates, my heart sinks. _That figures_, I think.

"Sis, Margaret," Lyle walks over to where we're sitting. He glances at Emily with a frown. "Russell," he says; there's no nod for her.

She glares. "What's your number?" she snaps.

"How should I know?" he replies back. "I don't ring myself."

Emily laughs, though she doesn't find it funny. "I still hate you," she says.

"Yeah, I hate you too," he intones and walks away, toward the counter.

"You better be getting me a coffee!" Emily calls after him; he doesn't reply.

Margaret stares at her.

"He owes me," Emily says.

"Emily!"

"I don't care if it was years ago," Emily replies. "My memory's quite as excellent as it was then."

"Can he not just use her first name?" Margaret asks me now.

I frown. _I don't think he's capable_, my frown says.

"You, girl with the annoying, loud voice," Lyle's voice announces suddenly from behind me. "Do you want a piece of cake?"

Emily leaps up out of her seat. "I don't know yet," she snaps, "I'm going to see what's the most expensive."

Margaret's frown is back, directed at Emily's retreating figure.

I refrain from swearing. I can't stand sneaky people, and I can't stand people sneaking up on me! Lyle's just lucky I didn't whip around and jump up out of my chair and slap him for startling me like that.

When I look, Emily is looking at the cakes. Lyle has crossed his arms and is looking bored. He's probably wondering how much longer Emily's going to take to choose something, or not to choose something. _Well, you only brought it on yourself_, I think.

It's not like it's me or Margaret he's offering a free piece of cake. He's probably just doing it to say, _See, I do feel bad about shit._ I don't believe it for one minute, and if Emily does, than she's duller than I'd thought.

Emily returns with a stomp and plomps herself down in her chair.

Margaret is staring at her, waiting for her to speak.

She says, "Nothing, mom. Okay! I got the carrot cake. But I haven't had it for ages!"

"Was it the most expensive?"

Emily rolls her eyes. "No."

"Mmm…"

Emily's eyes widen. "What?" she asks.

"Nothing, sweetie," Margaret remarks casually.

I wonder what this is about.

Emily looks scandalised, but drops the look when Lyle comes over. She looks at me rather than the empty chair beside her. When he takes it, she turns suddenly and smacks him in the arm with the back of her hand. "My bag was sitting there!" she exclaims.

"I see," he replies. "My apologies."

Emily makes a face. "That's not funny!" she whines.

"Do I _look_ amused? In the slightest?"

"I don't trust you."

"That's comforting to know."

"Shut up!"

Lyle smiles. "I think I will."

"'I think I will,'" Emily mutters sarcastically.

I suppress the urge to frown; Margaret's flipping through her magazine again. I'm suddenly listening in on the conversation of a young couple two tables away; it's too quiet.

In his usual annoying fashion, Lyle starts humming something.

Emily grins.

Charles Aznavour's _You've Got to Learn_, I recall vaguely.

Emily starts laughing. "You're so stupid!" she says, watery tears appearing in her eyes.

He smiles.

"You're teasing me!" Emily accuses, trying not to laugh.

"You're going to aggravate her asthma," Margaret says finally, looking up from her magazine sharply.

Lyle stops humming; and, with some effort, Emily puts her smile away. With a serious expression, she shakes her head at Lyle.

He smiles at the waitress, who has just appeared. "Thank you, darling," he says.

Emily grabs the mini choc chip cookie from her saucer and begins adding sugar to her coffee. "'Darling,'" she imitates through a mouthful of cookie, watching the waitress for a moment as she walks away.

When he looks as well, she sneaks the cookie from his saucer and pops it in her mouth, feigning genuine surprise when he sees that it's gone and looks at her.

She clenches her fists, held up to her face, and, with wide eyes, mutters, "Aliens!" in a faintly conspiratorial way.

Lyle frowns as though to say, _Sure._

"Do you want sugar?" she asks, sugar pourer in hand.

He pushes her hand away from his mug. "No, thanks."

She looks up at us, "Mom? Mel?"

Margaret shakes her head in the negative; no.

A frown appears on my face before I can stop it. I feel a sudden stab of anger at my dead husband. He told his sister my name! He Goddamn _told_ her!

"'Mel'?" Lyle whispers, leaning closer to Emily. "It's Melody, darl."

My face contorts in anger and I stand, suddenly, from my chair. My hands are shaking, but that doesn't stop me from snatching up my own mug of coffee, already half drank. "You fucking bastard!" I shriek; I don't _care_ that I'm standing in the middle of a café, in the middle of the shopping mall where my daughter and I usually do our weekly shopping.

I just don't _care_!

Lyle gets up now, too. "Oh," he says suddenly, walking toward me, "I'm sorry. I thought… you'd shared your first name with the rest of our family… Is that not the case?"

Filled with anger, I remember that my hands are shaking, and toss the remainder of my coffee on him. "You're not my brother!" I scream. "I've never believed that you are – I _never_ wanted you!"

I don't wait around to be dressed down by management, or to see his pretend hurt face, I just walk right out of there.


	4. Chapter 4

It's hot outside, in the parking lot – I can't find the fucking car, where _is_ it? – but I'm as cold as ice. I can _see_ it! I can see that little freak, _so_ pleased that he's fucked up my day! Fucked up my coffee! My family bonding time!

_Oh, fuck! Where did I put the stupid, crappy thing?_

_He's probably broken in and _moved_ it_, I think irrationally, and direct my heavy steps back in the direction of the doors I'd just come out of, back toward the mall.

As it turns out, I don't make it back to the café. I'm too mad; I think I might get myself thrown out and banned from the whole complex; I might try to _kill_ him!

I make a beeline for the toilets. At the corner to the toilets, I suddenly freeze.

"I'm sorry," I hear Emily's voice say. It's not laughing or sarcastic, it's sorry.

I must look stupid, I think, just standing here in the corridor. I hope any onlookers to the scene will think I'm just waiting for my grandkid, or a friend.

"I should have-"

"Are you kidding?" Lyle interrupts her. "It's high time I woke up to reality. That's the way she honestly feels; why should I pretend it isn't; why should I disrespect that!" He laughs strangely. "No, she's _right_. It's time! I've been deluding myself for far too long-"

"Oh-"

"No, I _have_!"

"You're scaring me," Emily's voice says. "What are you thinking? What are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

"Please don't go!"

"I don't want it! I don't want it anymore!" he laughs.

"Stop…" Emily whines.

"It's the way I feel, I _can't_ make it _stop_! I don't want any part in this fucking family anymore! I'm done! That's it! I can't take it anymore! I'm done!"

"Please look at me."

Matter-of-factly he says, "I can't leave them and then keep you."

"Why not?" She's trying hard not to let her desperation slip, but still I hear it; he doesn't.

"It wouldn't be fair," he replies logically.

Emily's voice is suddenly loud, suddenly in anger, "WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?" She laughs hysterically. "I FUCKING _LOVE_ YOU! IF THAT MEANS NOTHING TO YOU AT ALL, THEN I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M EVEN FUCKING HANGING AROUND!" I feel like cringing, like backing away from the corner and running. "FUCK YOU!" Emily is howling. "FUCK YOU!" Then, suddenly, she's crying. Through her tears, she gasps, "You always loved her _more_." It's not an accusation, it's a fact: a whisper of truth.

"She's my sister," Lyle says quietly. "But you're wrong; I don't love her more. I love her as much as she deserves to be loved; I love _her_, but I love _you_, too. She's my sister and you're not. It isn't the same love."

"But you love her _more_!" Emily hollers in a whisper.

"Please don't do this, Emily. You're not a little girl anymore. You must understand that I love you both equally."

Emily laughs; it's a horrible laugh. "Oh, fuck you!" she flings, and then she's barrelling around the corner, tearing away from me – I don't think that she even saw me – but she doesn't run back to the café, she runs past it and keeps running.

My heart can't decide what it wants to do; if it wants to rise or sink. My legs feel weak.

"I'm sorry," I hear Lyle's voice from around the corner and I know that he's figured onto me; he's using his brotherly voice.

Without saying anything, I walk away, too.

* * *

"I know what's happening. To Syri. I know whose Voice it is."

I stop dead. My blood goes cold.


	5. Chapter 5

**Okay, just so you're up to speed, this is set in 2009. (Not the flashback, though, obviously.)**

**I was going to make this set way super in the future, but then it wouldn't really work out without a whole heap of complicated stuff cropping up, so I decided to go with this option instead.**

* * *

_1978_

The baby, a little girl, was possibly the most perfect thing Miss Parker had seen in her whole life: _her_ baby; _their_ baby!

They were going to run away together, they were going to make a new life for themselves; just Jarod, Syriana, and Miss Parker.

But then the Tower heard of Jarod and Miss Parker's plans: and they didn't like what they heard.

There was no running away, just her perfect baby being taken from her arms. She cried; Jarod didn't: he didn't remember that there was anything to cry about.

* * *

_2009_

I twirl around. I'm off before I know it: it's despicable and it kills me a thousand times over not to be able to stop the words from coming, but it's too deep. "If I hear _shit_ that you've been interfering with my retrieval of J-" I see my brother's look of deep discomfort as he steps around the corner and that's what finally stoppers my rant. _Right_, a slow, distant part of my thoughts clonks around to, _that was years ago, in another life, almost._

"I think you should maybe go easy on the coffee," he says, as though I hadn't just lost it; as though I hadn't just been yelling at him over something that had gone quite redundant years ago; as though he hadn't been unsettled in the least bit.

For a moment, my mind wonders if it's ever actually seen that particular turn of expression on him before: unsettlement. _No, probably not_, it concludes. "Why? Why should I?" I rant, instead.

He nods.

I don't know why he's nodding; my mind refuses to think that it may be because of someone who's just come up behind me, someone who he can see over my shoulder. I glare: maybe he's forgotten just how I fucking _hate_ him; it'd probably be a good time to remind him!

He frowns. It looks painful. He's trying not to say the name; that'd really spoil the game.

The smile freezes on my face, then drops away. I don't want to turn and look.

"I see that you're alive and well," Margaret's voice observes from behind me. "As well as to be expected, in any case. I hope this is a conciliatory conversation; I shouldn't want to be so thoroughly embarrassed a second time in one day. And on to other matters, might either of you perhaps have seen my daughter?"

"She got angry," Lyle tells her. "I think we had an argument."

"You think or you know?" Margaret asks. I wonder if she's frowning.

"No; yes, we did… have… an argument."

"That seems to be a common theme where our families are concerned," she remarks.

I'm frozen: I _want_ to turn to look, but I can't move; I can't even speak. Had she overheard my earlier rant, or not?

"I think she went to the bookstore," Lyle says.

Margaret sighs, "That sounds about right. Well, _then_, I guess I'll be waiting in the café if anyone feels like talking…"

I feel each of her footsteps as she walks away like the deep and painful _thud, thud, thud_ of my heart in my chest. I almost ask, _Is she gone?_ but Lyle has already nodded, and though I can't really say for certain that'd he'd caught onto what I may have been thinking, I suppose it's possible, and take his response as a _yes_. "Who?" I growl in a low, menacing voice that feels strange, now, outside of my thoughts after so much time secreted away. "Who's trying to destroy my fucking family?" It's a laughable question, as though this family hasn't been destroyed multiple times over over the years! But I don't care, the past is set firmly in the past for this one moment: I just want to hear his answer!

"Her name was Dorothy. Please," he winces, "she's family."

"She's dead!" I snap.

He's not quite looking me in the eye; it does little for my cool.

"W-w-we've had our differences in the past," he says, "but I think that it's time to set all that aside and say, _Yes, okay, that was in the past, and now we can do things differently_. I think… we have to… approach it like this from now on."

"She's dead!"

"She's o-our grandmother."

Finally, dumbstruck, I just stare at him: Dorothy isn't our aunt, after all, and she never was; she's our mother's mother. Distantly, I think, _Maybe he's madder than I thought: how can that be?_ "Our grandmother?"

"Y-yes."

"And she's dead?"

"Yes."

I almost laugh. _Just like old times, then_, I think. "Great!" I'm going to have to dig out Sydney's number; just as long as it's not in front of Margaret.


	6. Chapter 6

"W-where are you going?"

The stuttering's really starting to annoy me, then, I think, Has he just followed me into the women's toilets?

Luckily, I see, as I quickly search around with my eyes, there's no one else in here at the moment. "To ring Sydney," I say. "Get out."

All the same, it's kind of a surprise when he actually does.

* * *

Lyle sits down at the table with Margaret, in the café. He doesn't say anything, but neither does he look at her. He might just be thinking; _who can tell?_ Margaret thinks. She doesn't really want to say anything, but not saying anything is worse. At long last, she looks up from the magazine: she'd already read the horoscopes about five times and it was getting old.

"From what I've gathered over the years, I'd been under the impression that you were the cheerful half of two; what's going on?"

Lyle smiles, but it's far too late, and she gets the impression it's not even to deflect her questions: it's something else entirely. "My sister would argue after your choice of descriptor fastidiously," he replies.

"Your sister's not here."

He looks uncomfortable for a moment, but refrains from turning his head to look behind him, as though to check for signs of his sister. "Sh-she's upset."

"I wasn't asking about Miss Parker," Margaret comments.

He blinks, but stops smiling. "There's nothing wrong with me," he says. "Nothing unusually so."

"I don't believe you," she replies dryly.

Lyle makes a face at the tabletop, rather than glance at her. "Do you think that just because you have children that that makes you an authority on everyone else's childr-"

"That isn't what I think, at all," Margaret tells him, cutting him off. "Your mother and I were very good friends, at one stage."

"I never knew my mother, as you call her. The amount of time that we spent in the company of one another is… negligible. You're going to judge me because you were… best friends with a woman I never even knew, for all intents and purposes? That hardly seems… fair, to me."

Margaret frowns. "You're forgetting, my daughter knows you, also. A least, one side of you. It doesn't matter that it mayn't be at all real; it says more than you'd like to think. So I like to think I know you a little through my daughter."

Lyle laughs. "There was never anyone you thought might just be a better choice than who she, in her youth and ignorance, had chosen? I find that hard… to believe, M-margaret."

Feeling her temper rise, Margaret attempts to deflect the attention from her role as Emily's mother by saying, "I wasn't aware that you stuttered."

"It's n-n-nothing," Lyle says dismissively. "I d-don't. You might have tried a little harder. I'm an awful person to care for so deeply; she's a passionate, caring, bright young woman, she doesn't deserve to be hurt just because she's taken to the wrong person."

Margaret's eyes flash with anger. "And why was that? You must have done something."

"Don't make me laugh! She was a child. It's frankly disgusting. But children will do what they have to, and that was what she did. It doesn't make her a bad person, just damaged."

"I wasn't insinuating that she _was_ a bad person; I love my daughter!"

"That's great," Lyle replies, though he doesn't sound like he believes it for a moment. "Maybe you should tell her that."

Margaret fumes.

"See, we've barely begun to scratch the surface of anything remotely resembling honesty, and already you can't stomach me."

"Emily cares for you," Margaret says, despite the fact that she's seeing less and less how that can be and feeling more and more like hitting him, or being sick.

"Good God, you're her mother!"

Margaret feels anger twist in her chest. "Don't you care for her, at all?"

"I know how it's supposed to go; in the fairytales the stories always ends the same way; but, no; the world is a little bit different for me than it is for you, more so, I think, than merely taking into the account that we are different people and have experienced different things, that all our lives, we've led separate identities, separate lives. That much is commonplace for every person in this world, yet, how are we really different? Sometimes I think it is only ever our perception of our world and our self that makes us different, when it comes down to it, in reality.

"But I am different. I'm very, very ill; and whilst I'd like to be able to say that your daughter might one day break through some invisible barrier and be able to help me, you and I both know that's utter shite. Not in this lifetime, not anymore."

"You're a pessimistic little sicko, aren't you?" Margaret remarked, voicing her thoughts honestly.

"If that's the way you want to look at it, then perhaps I am."

"And yet you talk about it all so calmly."

He smiles, and says softly, "Pretenders have that gift."

"There's nothing you want for yourself?" she asks.

"Should I be allowed to? I can have everything that I need, but, no, I don't think I should be allowed to have everything I want. The law would take a very dim view of that; you and your daughter both, included."

"You wouldn't just be pulling one over me?"

"Ask my sister, if you don't believe me. I understand why she wishes, at times, that I weren't her brother; I'd wish the same thing, in her place."

"Then there's nothing that you're hiding from me; you've been completely honest?"

"I'm never honest; and never, never completely anything. Perhaps, with the exception of 'sick,' as you so kindly put it?"

"You seem a thinking enough person to me. There's room for improvement in all of us."

"Thinking, perhaps, but not feeling. Not the right feelings."

Margaret made a face; such a childish thing to say. "Are there ever any 'right' feelings?"

"Whether there are or not doesn't change the fact that there are some feelings which are looked down on by society… at large. People categorise experiences and actions into good and bad very easily, and the same applies to notions, particular lines of thought, and whatever you might care to express in words, or even in the handwritten word. Don't step outside the box unless you've got the money to pay off the fella who's waiting there for you!"

"Did I hear someone mention pessimistic."

"I like to think of it, rather, as realistic."

"And why do you care?"

Lyle sighed, "Because people are supposed to care."

"How do you know?"

"Don't," he shakes his head, "don't ask that."

"Healthy people, are you going to say? What's that? Who's healthy these days? Is anyone?"

"Stop. I didn't ask for your understanding, and, personally, it makes me uncomfortable."

Margaret doesn't smile, but she senses that she has something to say now, something important to add, "Well, then, that's a feeling, isn't it? That's something to begin with and work on."

Suddenly, he looks angry. "No. It isn't. I don't- I don't work around things the way you might! How many times must I say it?" He looks over his shoulder, looking for his sister. She must still be on the phone to Sydney, or trying to reach him.

Margaret's question brings his attention back around to her face, "So, what? You're scared of going to Hell?"

"I don't believe in Hell."

"How's that for a stroke of convenience! Isn't that helpful?"

"Highly," he remarks, unable to keep the sarcasm at bay.

"I fail to understand why you care," Margaret says.

"I don't," is the reply.

"I don't believe that."

"Your choice."

"Why do you feel that you have to continually lie to me?"

"You always have to lie. Who are you? You're just like all the rest."

Margaret represses a sigh, but she's fairly sure it shows on her face. "That hurt."

"Maybe I meant it to."

He leaves it up to her decide over the subject of his intention; she supposes he wishes them to stop talking, so she does. She goes back to her magazine, but, when she looks down at the page, she finds that she still feels sick.

She glances at the piece of cake Emily still hasn't eaten.

"I don't think she's all that keen on it anymore; if you don't want it to go to waste, it'll probably end up you having to eat it," Lyle remarks without looking at her; he's watching a young Eurasian woman standing in queue at the service desk at the newsagency.

Margaret looks away from the piece of cake, around to the newsagent.

The young woman is looking at Lyle, too, now.

Lyle looks away; Margaret doesn't. She sees that the young woman is coming over.

Lyle is looking at nothing, or maybe at the table.

The young woman stops at their table and frowns; she nods to Margaret in a formal fashion. "I'm studying at the university here; what a surprise," she says to Lyle in a voice which is accented as any number of the young people who've grown up in America and taken on one of its many accents.

"The two of you are acquainted then?" Margaret says.

The young woman answers too quickly, "No." She frowns, regretting that she'd not taken more time to reply, more time to mull over her response. "Is she your wife?" she asks Lyle.

"Friend of the family."

The young woman's voice is suddenly guarded, her eyes wary, unwilling to linger on Margaret any longer, "I see."

Lyle frowns. "Carol-Joyce-"

Carol-Joyce nods; she understands.

Lyle's frown in disconcerted, "No." He pauses for thought. "I mean _my_ family."

Slowly, the girl begins to smile until she's beaming. "Very exciting," she tells him with a sudden accent, and bobs her head before raising her eyes and turning them to Margaret. "Mother-in-law?" she asks.

Margaret spares the young woman no smile; she doesn't know what's going on.

"Yeah, I guess. My sister's married to her son."

The young woman's excitement dies; she stamps her foot. "I was so excited!" she chides. Her American accent is back.

"Well, now you see that there was no need for it," Lyle merely says.

Carol-Joyce waves a hand at him. "Do you know any nice boys? Tell me!" Her accent seesaws between continents.

"Nice boys don't do it for me."

Carol-Joyce's hand shoots up to her mouth and she laughs hysterically, thin tears forming in her eyes. She stamps her foot again, and nods to them both; one, and then the other. "I must go!" she cries regretfully, gasping air back into her lungs, and she's off.

Lyle doesn't watch her go.

"Who was that?" Margaret asks plainly.

"Daughter of a friend."

Margaret's gaze is sharp, "Is that so?"

"Intractably so."

Carol-Joyce returns, waving a piece of torn paper as she runs over and comes to an abrupt, disjointed halt. "Ring me!" she chirps, and off she goes again, gone as suddenly as she'd come, leaving the small, ripped offering lying on the table between Margaret and Lyle, but clearly more so on his side of the table.

From where she's sitting, Margaret can see that it's a number for a cell phone. From the corner of her eyes, she sees Emily approaching and picks up the piece of paper and hands it to Lyle.

He puts it away in his pocket.

Emily takes a seat without saying a word; she hadn't seen the piece of paper. She slumps in her chair.

Lyle frowns. "Do sit up properly," he tells her.

"Sue me," she mutters. A moment later, she stares at him, picking at a fingernail with another of her nails. "Where's your sister?" A hint of accusation lies about her voice, or maybe it's just unhappiness.

"Taking a call," he answers shortly.

Margaret reaches for the piece of cake but Emily jerks her head around suddenly and says, "I don't want it."

"Well, I don't-"

Margaret doesn't get the sentence out before Emily snaps blankly, "Then leave it."

"Emily-"

Emily leaps out of her chair and dives at Lyle.

Margaret's attention is suddenly on them, and the look of shock her best friend's son is giving her daughter.

"Stop calling me that, I hate that name!" Emily yells at him.

"That isn't true," he says. He's standing behind his chair; he's not taking any chances.

"You never call me Emily! I hate it!" Lyle looks like he's going to say something, so Emily interrupts, "What if I called _you_ Robert?"

"What if you did?"

Emily goes to grab his arm and freezes, allowing him the time to take a sharp step backward.

Margaret stays in her seat, afraid that a sudden movement would give everything away.

Emily lurches forward and streaks away, toward the automatic doors where her father and younger brother – Jarod's clone – now stand. She hugs her dad, then Mo.

Margaret means to say _go_, but instead she says, "Leave." She doesn't apologise; she wouldn't have the time even if she'd wanted to.

She catches the look in Lyle's eyes too slowly; she can't even get out of her seat that quickly, and then he's striding away, taking his jacket with him, toward her family, toward her husband. She stands from the seat, but, really, she doesn't want to go over there.

She knows it is a purposeful act. (Charles doesn't know what she knows; she never told him.)


	7. Chapter 7

"No!"

My daughter's eyes are dark and angry; she's not going to let me in whilst he's here with me.

I still haven't said anything about the bruise, maybe later I'll be able to laugh about it; right now I just need Syri to let us in: we can help her. I'm about to go on, explain myself, when the door is slammed in my face. I fight not to sigh; not in front of _him_.

Still, it's a small mercy he hasn't started on about my lack of parental ability (he can talk!), or, for that matter, convincingness: I'm her mother, though, for a great deal of time I'd been unaware of it.

After a long moment, I glance at Lyle.

He shakes his head, then, at my look of confusion, elaborates: "She's not here."

"Syri's okay?" I say, careful to keep my voice just business.

"Dolly-"

"Dulcie!"

"She's your daughter's kid," Lyle says. "Has she shown any signs of having inherited the anomaly?"

"Her dad's an Empath," I put in, "she might have inherited that and not have inherited the Inner Sense or the ability to Pretend, at all." I don't want to think about Dulcie in danger!

"It's possible."

I frown and turn away from Syri's front door, starting to walk back to the car; I can't stand being so close to Lyle anyway. I stop outside the car to wait for him to catch up. "Then she's dead," I say. "She's dead, right? She's the one behind this, she's got to be dead."

"Yop."

"And she's our grandmother?"

A nod.

I shake my head. "I don't know how that works."

Lyle says nothing.

"What did you say to Charles?" I guess now's as good a time to ask as any.

He smiles.

I feel like stepping over there and slapping him; I don't.

He stops, standing on the footpath. "We have to-"

"Charles?" I remind him; he still hasn't answered my question.

"Unimportant," is all he says.

"You're an asshole," I tell him.

"Is there a reason you keep repeating that, as though you think it's ever going to change?" he asks, making me hate him even more.

I refrain from saying anything; all it would be would be, _Fuck you!_

"You don't know anything about our grandfather, do you?" he asks.

"On our mother's side; no."

He frowns. "It would be helpful to know."

"How old was she when Momma was born?" I ask; maybe he knows, maybe not.

"Ten."

"Excuse me?"

"Ten," he repeats.

I don't say anything. What does one say to that? _It was 1938_, I tell myself. It's not really much consolation; I guess the same thing is still happening somewhere in the world; it probably always will. "You know this for certain?"

He nods; for sure.

"But you don't know who?"

Nope; he shakes his head.

"Do you think it was consenting?"

"Who can say?" he replies.

"But you're assuming it wasn't? That's why she's so mad?"

"I'm not assuming anything. I don't know if she was agreeing to it or not."

"But it would be logical. It would give her a reason to dislike any kids Syri might have; her great… great-grandkids…" Everybody says they feel old when they hear that word; grandkid; I wonder, for a moment, how Dorothy must feel. It doesn't make me like her any more; I just wonder. On the other hand, I still don't know if this is for real, or if it's just a ploy by Lyle to get something that he wants; _like my trust_, I think.

"I'd say it's because of the anomaly; I'm hazarding a guess that it didn't come from her end."

I squint my eyes, "Because-"

"The religiously-minded don't like that sort of thing; smacks of witchcraft, I guess."

My voice raises a notch into disbelieving territory, "'_Witchcraft_'?"

Lyle smiles again, "Cute, isn't it?"

I frown; I don't think so. "And you expect us to be able to get through to her, when all she sees us as is a bunch of _witches_? Maybe we should be looking to sick an exorcist onto her ass, instead? Do you think she's really dangerous?"

"Depends on Sarah, I guess."

"Syri," I say.

"Sigrid, then."

"Syriana! Not Sigrid!"

"Whatever."

"Asshole!"

"Can't you think of anything more original?"

"Sorry, asshole; I can't!"

"Oh, well."

"So she never tried this on our mom?" I ask; it makes sense to me.

"Don't know."

"Who's your Voice?"

He frowns.

"Who do you hear?" I rephrase.

"May Lin."

"Your wife?"

He nods.

"The one you… killed?"

He nods again.

"And you trust her?"

"Shouldn't I?" he asks.

I frown, then turn away to open the car. Fuck him! If he's that thick, he can suffer! I'm not going to be the one filling him in, _Ah, yeah, you killed her, right; so she remembers that, hey?_

* * *

It starts to rain on the drive to his place; I don't know where he lives, he has to tell me the way; I put the wipers on and hit the heater; it's getting cold. "What does that mean?" I ask after a long silence. "'Unimportant'?"

"That's what it means; not important." He sounds like he expects me to get it.

"This wasn't about Kyle, was it?" I ask.

"No."

"Jarod?"

"I see what you're doing," he tells me.

I stop at a traffic sign; there's a red light. "Then why don't you just tell me and save us both the trouble?"

"Emily's got this thing for me; don't ask me why," he's frowning at the side window instead of looking at me, "I asked the Major – is that what we're calling him?"

"Charles; I call him Charles. Going on…"

"I asked Charles if he'd mind us getting married."

I choke, then start to cough. I feel slightly sick.

Lyle looks around at me suddenly, shaking his head, "I'm not joking."

"I don't doubt that," I say. At least I've stopped coughing. "So, a 'thing'? Because, I kind of heard you say you loved her; I was hiding around the corner, and I know you know I was."

"I say that to all the girls; so what?"

My eyes go wide, though I'd not meant for them to. "She's not even your _type_!"

He hiccups. "Then I'm her type; what difference does it make?" He looks out the windshield suddenly and says, "Green."

I change gears and start forward, glad that no one had started honking yet; that'd just piss me off. "I guess Charles wasn't so keen on having you as his son-in-law," I say, watching the road in front of us through the fiercely waving wipers.

"Guess-" hic, "not."

I glance at him shortly, frowning.

"Jelly babies," he says.

"What if he changes his mind?"

Lyle frowns. "Don't even say that."

I grin.

"Funny; ha ha."

"I _would_ laugh!" I tell him.

"I can see that."

"Hey, you're the one who asked, not me."

"Don't remind me. I'm an idiot; I say all sorts of idiotic things; where are you when I need someone to shut me up?"

"I was talking to Syd," I defend.

"Talking to Sydney," he drones.

"Emily's an alright girl," I say, just to aggravate him.

"She's a horror!"

"You'd _love_ her!"

"Can you pull over, I think I'm going to be sick!"

I laugh. "No way!"

"Seriously, pull over. This is my stop; that's my place." He points.

I sigh, and find a place to pull over. It's still raining; I hope he gets wet.

"Do you want to come in for a coffee or something?" he asks.

"No."

"Bye, then."

I grimace, but say nothing. I pull away again, the sound of the car door shutting reverberating in my mind. Crap, and this nonsense with 'Dorothy' isn't over yet! I'm going to have to talk to him again, whether I like it or not. But first, I think, I'm going to have a word with Catherine, if I can.


	8. Chapter 8

When I arrive at the mall to meet Sydney two days later, Margaret is already there; the pair are chatting away, Sydney wearing a frown and Margaret looking quite fine.

Syri hasn't let me back in the house after I tried to bring Lyle around (she knew who he was, apparently) and I decided that spying on her wasn't really my form; as much as I'm scared for her and the baby (for Dulcie), I can't be letting myself slip; doing bad things occasionally isn't acceptable anymore. And it's not like I could take Dorothy on even if she was to make a show; she's dead, I'm not. I guess it's just something I'm going to have to talk to Syd about.

"Missy."

Margaret has already said my name before I have the chance to surprise Sydney, and he turns around to look. He doesn't say anything because it'd be pointless; Margaret has made the introductions for both of us, but he tempers his frown. I wonder if that means it was about me; if they'd been chatting about me.

I take a seat at the table; it's not the same table as we'd had a few days ago; I almost give a sigh of relief: I think that table has bad karma for me now; I'm going to want to throw my coffee on someone whenever I sit at it.

I hadn't invited Margaret, so I start to frown, but Margaret is already standing up: she has to go, she is telling us both in a bright voice. Then I notice what I'd missed before: Emily is looking at a magazine in the newsagency, apparently waiting for her mom's return. I wonder if I should say something; maybe apologise for my brother's 'idiotic' mouth of two days ago, but by then she's gone.

"Tell me about this spirit," Sydney says, so I do; then he's frowning again.

"Were you hoping she was still alive?" I ask.

"I suppose I was," he says. "You're sure she's not?"

"I've tried talking to Momma, but… so far nothing."

"Hmm."

"Do you think he was lying?"

"When isn't he?"

I almost blink; _almost_. I hadn't realised Sydney thought this about my brother, and I feel kind of stupid. All the while, I'd been thinking the same thing and probably worse, but I suppose I thought that Syd would be the voice of reason or compassion. I guess I'd thought wrong; Syd was only human too.

"I'm having a little trouble…"

"Emily?" I pose; I hope he gets my meaning; I _want_ that to be what Margaret was talking to him about!

"Yes."

"Well, maybe he was lying again; maybe Emily was just too embarrassed to say anything." In spite of my words, I haven't forgotten what I'd heard Emily shout before she'd come running around the corner without even seeing me.

"We'd have to talk to Emily to know with any degree of surety." He's looking over at the newsagency; Emily and Margaret are looking at the same magazine.

"Know what?"

A scowl instantly appears on my face, and before I can stop myself, I'm reaching for Sydney's coffee. "Look, piss off!" I tell Lyle, but he's already taken a seat across from me and made himself at home.

"So? Know what?"

I look up to see Emily stalking over with an unhappy expression on her face.

Though he sees her too, Sydney's expression doesn't change at all.

"You're a jerk!" Emily declares angrily. "Now, because of you, my dad's trying to match-make me with Glen!"

"Anyone I know?" Lyle asks casually. Maybe he'd seen Emily earlier, I think.

"Fuck off! My _mom_ is looking at wedding magazines!"

"Don't have a mum, wouldn't know what that's like," he replies.

"You married that May whoever, didn't you?" Emily snaps.

"Lin. You're point being?"

She scowls at him, then looks at Sydney suddenly. She stares for a bit, then says, "Are you Sydney?"

"I am," Sydney replies.

Emily looks back to Lyle, then kicks him in the shoe. "Jerk!" she hisses. Then, in Japanese (which I guess she thinks I don't know), "_You didn't have to bring your father; I wasn't going to kill you – much!_"

Lyle stands up and takes her arm.

She somehow manages to smile at Sydney whilst still glaring with her eyes.

"_My sister knows what you're saying_," Lyle says quietly.

"_How am I supposed to know, idiot!_" Emily snaps back.

I stare at them; are they going to leave us alone and talk in private, or what?

Emily shuffles away, before Lyle walks off, pulling her after him.

I look at Sydney.

"They were arguing?" Sydney asks. "Disagreeing?"

"Yeah," I agree. I don't really want to have to tell him what Emily said; I hope he doesn't press it.

To my luck, he says, "Do you believe that Dorothy's your grandmother and not your aunt?"

"The verdict's still out on that one," I reply. Sydney's not looking at me; he's looking at _them_. And I was trying not to! There goes that, I guess. They're still arguing, by the looks of it. Between all the arguing, I wonder when they got the time to do anything else, then feel kind of sick. That's not really something I want to imagine.

"WHAT?!" Emily hollers loudly, and I almost jump out of my seat in fright. Up 'til then, Emily hadn't been really bothered with Lyle's hand on her arm, but then she yanks it away and comes storming back over, looking really mad. We don't hang out much, so I guess that's what her expression means.

"Get up," she says to me. "We need to talk."

Lyle comes back over in a hurry but she waves her hand at him to go away; he just stands there.

I wonder what this is about, Emily suddenly needing to talk to me. I get up and walk over to her; she marches away. Lyle watches her go but doesn't follow; I trail after her. We stop around the corner, near an aromatherapy store, I suppose.

Emily's arms are crossed; she still looks mad.

I wait for her to say something.

She doesn't look away when she says it; she just keeps looking me right in the eye, "Jarod's with her!"

I don't understand. "What?" I say. My heart lurches: _Dorothy_, I think. _Oh God!_

"He's with Nia!" Emily says angrily. "He's not dead!"

This time my heart doesn't lurch – it stops! "What?" I breathe.

"She's his Convergence partner, you're just his best friend; he left you to be with her!" Emily spells it out.

I can't think; I think I may be having trouble breathing. My brain gets stuck on the letter _j_. _And then what?_ I think. _J and then what? What's next, after J?_ I can't remember. My mouth is dry; I cough. "Are you sure?" I say, as though it's not my life we're talking about at all, as though it's only someone else's, someone that I'd heard about vaguely, maybe. My eyes water; it's hard to talk.

She only nods.

I grab her suddenly; I can't see if her eyes have widened. "Why did you tell me?" I gasp.

"I thought you'd want to know," she says quietly, suddenly confused.

I let go of her; I step away from her. "I don't!" I whisper coldly, fiercely. Then I run.

I don't think, or cry, I just _run_!

* * *

**I'm mean. :-(**


	9. Chapter 9

I run into Lyle; luckily, I manage to stop in time before I bowl him over and we both end up on the floor. I glare at him angrily; he looks like he's going to cry. I almost slap him for that alone – what's he got to be so upset about?!

"They've got a child," he says, as though that explains it all. "Syri's an adult; she's lived for so long without the two of you."

I stare. I _want_ to shoot him! "What else have you told your little girlfriend?" I hiss spitefully. I can't believe he told _her_ and not me, though I more or less hate his guts and never pass up an opportunity to let him know it.

"She's mine," he says. "Why shouldn't I tell her things?"

I wait for him to go on, brushing at my face though I'm yet to shed a single tear. "Yours?" I prompt angrily.

He rubs the side of his face irritably. "She's mine and I'm hers," he explains slowly. "We have Convergence."

I can't get my mind around that; he's lying, right? "You tried to kill her," I say.

"I know."

"And when were you planning on telling me about Jarod?" I snarl suddenly. A bit of a turnabout, I think; I've got to work on keeping my emotions in check.

"I wasn't," he replies.

"That's nice," I say, completely plainly. Then, "_Real_ fucking nice, jerk!"

A young woman stops and stares at me; she's just my brother's type, I think.

"Now's not a good time, Carol-Joyce," he says, without turning to look at her.

"Then when is?" she asks. Her voice takes on a complaining note, "You didn't ring me."

"Believe me when I say, it's for the best."

"I don't believe you," she grouses.

He turns suddenly, "I can't help you, Carol-Joyce."

"Yes you can," she says; she _knows_ he can.

"Well, I don't want to."

"Why are you being so mean?" she whines.

"Another little girlfriend?" I sneer. It's unfair to the girl, but it's for the best, I suppose. The sooner she pisses off and leaves him behind, the better!

Carol-Joyce looks at me. "Is she your boss?" she asks.

He frowns, bites his lip, then frowns some more. Hard decision. "She's my sister," he says blankly.

"For real?" Carol-Joyce chirps.

He shakes his head. "I don't know. Maybe, maybe not."

A frown crosses her face, "She thinks I'm your girlfriend?"

"For good reason."

"What reason?"

"Look, Carol-Joyce, right now I have to sort this out with my sister, alright? I don't have time for you."

"That's really mean."

"It is what it is; if I'm so mean then why don't you leave, stop talking to me, I never asked you to and I don't want you to, frankly."

Carol-Joyce's face is coloured in both shock and embarrassment; it's an odd look. She looks like maybe she's about to burst into tears. "We all look up to you," she says quietly, defiantly; her last flicker of hope: is he going to blow it out, or something else?

I'm lost in all of this; I don't know what's going on; I've stopped thinking about Jarod because it _hurts_; this is _interesting_, and a fair distraction.

"Fuck!" Lyle walks over to her and puts his hands on her arms, then turns her around. "Go. Get out of my sight," he tells her.

She turns back around but he doesn't look at her. It'd look kind of funny if I didn't get how much he's hurt this girl in saying what he has. She's all hunched over now, and he's just standing there, staring at a point somewhere to his left, maybe at a spot on the floor.

So she turns and goes: what else can she do?

This time, I really want to slap him. My hand is telling me it'd love nothing more than to do that, and my wrist is starting to agree. _The bastard!_ "What was that?" I yell, though I don't remember telling my voice to come out quite so loudly.

He turns and looks past me; I guess maybe Emily's made a reappearance and he's looking at her. He doesn't say anything so now we're both waiting on Emily. She's doing something on her cell phone, but when she gets closer he walks up to her quickly and hugs her; the phone clatters to the floor. "I was calling my _mom_!" she complains. She looks at me and says, "It's not his fault," without any real power of accusation.

I don't know what to say.

"What's wrong?" she asks Lyle. "Why are you trying to squish me to death?"

_Squish, squash_, I think, still trying not to think about Jarod. "He's pissed off because he had to tell his girlfriend that he's no longer interested in her," I tell her.

Her expression doesn't change, though she's looking at me and I can see that she heard.

He says something to her in what I suppose might be a form of Chinese; I don't speak it, so I wouldn't know which.

"Hmm? Yeah?" She frowns. "What did you say to her?" As before, I don't know what his reply is. Emily says, "She can't stop being what she is, just as none of us can, no matter how much we'd like to."

I walk over to Emily's phone and pick it up.

She nods; thanks, and I pass it over to her. "Mmm-hmm. I know," she says.

I'm feeling a bit annoyed, not knowing what he's saying. He just seems to go on.

"I know! It'll be okay."

I frown; Margaret is walking over.

"She knows that," Emily is saying to Lyle. "Hey, she knows that!"

Margaret slows down her pace; she fiddles with the handles on the shopping bag she's holding. Her cell phone buzzes and she takes it out of her handbag to answer it. "Harmony. Don't ask. Jean-Paul! Do I have to say any more!" She laughs. "Not really – exactly!"

Emily waves.

Margaret shakes her head. "Emily's waving; I suppose that means 'hi' and not 'help'? Mmm. I have pepper spray! Yeah. I will. _Ciao, bello_." She shuts her phone and puts it away. To Emily, she says, "I got you that book on plants you were admiring the other day."

Emily rolls her eyes. "Mom, it was _expensive_!"

Margaret shrugs. "I had a look at it; it looks like a good book."

Emily shakes her head. She stops mid-shake. "Pretzels!"

Margaret turns to look behind her casually and sighs; I notice Charles and Mo heading this way. Margaret gets a _fun_ look.

Charles is talking to Sydney, but Mo has already seen the four of us. I lock my gaze with his; _don't tell him_, I think, though really I don't know why.

"Lyle. Lyle!"

I reach over and shake his arm. "Hey, it's Charles," I say in a low voice. "Not Lucy," I moan. That gets Lyle to turn and look, at least; though, when he doesn't see Lucy he looks at me as though confused. "Oh, well," I say, "I can't be expected to memorise every one of your Asian girlfriends."

Emily nods.

I take Lyle's arm. "Let's go," I tell him.

He looks at me, presumably still frowning over the Lucy thing.

"How old are you?" I ask, though I go easy on the sarcasm.

He frowns, thinking about it. "Forty-nine," he says.

I stare; it wasn't really a question I was looking for an answer for. We're the same age; I know how old he is. I snap my fingers. "Any time," I say, "I'd like to finish the conversation I started with my brother."

"You-" He stops.

"_You_," I agree with emphasis. Then I frown, just getting something: he thought I'd been talking about someone else.

"He'd made his mind up," he says, "I didn't think it was my place to interfere with that."

"So you let me think he was dead?"

He nods.

"Some brother you are," I say. A real brother would have been on my side, not Jarod's; I don't even know why he's suddenly on Jarod's side. "What are we going to do about Dorothy?" I ask, moving on.

"I need to talk to her," he replies.

_You?_ I think, but I don't say. There's no _me_ in _I_; it's always the same: always the game is played how _he_ wants it, regardless of anyone else's wishes.


End file.
